


The Cutting-Room Floor

by novelDaydreamer



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: D/s AU, Ficlet Collection, Listening To The Series Fic, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:55:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24981172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novelDaydreamer/pseuds/novelDaydreamer
Summary: Short scenes, AUs, and the beginnings of stories that may never be finished.Chapter 2: D/s AU
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 5
Kudos: 31





	1. Chapter 1

Martin has been in Jon's office a lot longer than he usually takes to deliver the tea.

Of course, he might have a breakthrough on their latest statement. Martin’s had a lot of those these last couple weeks. Jon had actually almost _smiled_ at him when he turned up with those polaroids of Graham Folger, (at which point he'd promptly gone fire-engine red and nearly choked at Tim's congratulatory slap on the back). 

But last Sasha had overheard, from her desk a few feet away from his, Martin had been playing phone tag with a growing list of people who hadn't heard of Timothy Hodge, and it didn't sound like he'd gotten anywhere before going for a tea break.

Still, Sasha has her own dismal failure to report, so she gets up and heads over to the office.

"Have you got a minute?" she calls.

There's a muffled noise from inside. Sasha shrugs and opens the door, poking her head in. "I wanted to talk to you about…" 

She trails off.

Martin looks like hell. He turns away as soon as he realizes she's watching, but his face is that blotchy pale shade that means he'd be crying if they weren't at work, and might be crying soon anyway. He's got his hands pressed flat on the desk, on either side of a tape recorder that's playing - of all things - one of Jon's spooky statement tapes. 

" _I was so angry at this massive waste of my time…_ " says Jon on the tape.

The real Jon, meanwhile, looks that special kind of annoyed that means he just tore a strip off of someone.

Oh hell.

"You know what, I'll come back later."

"No, we're done here," Jon says, short and clipped.

Martin shakes his head frantically. "Wait - look, I _swear_ to you -"

"We're. Done."

Martin’s face crumples.

Sasha gives him a sympathetic wince as they maneuver past each other. Knowing Jon, whatever this is about probably wasn’t anywhere near as bad as he’s making it out to be, but Martin’s going to take it hard. He always does when Jon is involved. 

Maybe she can talk him into drinks tonight, give him something to distract himself.

“You wanted to talk.”

“Right,” Sasha says. She sits down across from Jon, pushing the tape recorder aside. The tape is still playing, Jon’s voice relating how much the statement-giver really wanted someone named Noriega dead. Lovely. 

Hang on. “I don’t recognize that one?”

“What?”

“The tape. The statement.” She nods at the recorder. “I don’t think you had us research that one, did you?”

The office door, nearly closed, swings open with a _bang_. “You can _hear_ it?” Martin demands. His knuckles on the handle are almost white as he stares at her, a light of hope in his eyes.

At the same time, Jon snaps out “It’s a _blank tape_ , there is no statement - Sasha, I expected better from _you_ at least.”

“No…” Sasha says. She pokes at the tape recorder. “No, that’s definitely your voice.”

“ _At this point I was starting to feel uneasy_ ,” Jon-on-the-tape contributes helpfully.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s not the first time Jon has worn a collar.

The collar Georgie gave him was dark blue, with a square buckle; nice, but not out of the price range of a couple of students. The edges of the leather had pressed against his skin every time he turned his head, until time and use had softened it. Georgie had given it to him on their one year anniversary, when they both decided their relationship was going somewhere.

(He had it for six months before they realized it wasn’t going anywhere good).

Martin’s collar is grey, etched with a faint diamond pattern and the initials MB. Next to the buckle there is a discrete loop, just large enough for Martin to hook a finger into - as he had proved, using it to pull Jon up from kneeling and kiss him.

Jon can’t stop thinking about how _soft_ it feels. 

He could almost forget it was there, it fits so well to the curve of his neck. Like something that was always meant to be there. His fingers keep drifting up to trace the lines, and the shape of Martin’s initials, and every time Martin sees him doing it he looks happy and approving, and - _well_.

Jon is hyperaware of it all the way to the archives. Waiting for people passing on the street to notice it, start to stare - even though rationally he knows that a good quarter of London wears a collar, and it’s not like anybody knows how _unlikely_ it is that somebody wanted _Jonathan Sims_ as a sub, even knowing him, even now when he’s turning into a monster and his evil boss collared to an evil god wants him to -

There’s a tug against his neck. 

Martin smiles, soft and wry. “We good?”

“I - yes. Yes. We’re good.”

“Good,” Martin says. He lets go of the collar (Jon suppresses a small pang of disappointment), and takes Jon’s unbandaged wrist instead. His hand stays loosely wrapped around it the rest of the way to the Institute.

It’s a lot easier to ignore the crowd with that warm point of contact.

Of course, in the Institute, people actually _do_ know Jonathan Sims. Rosie looks up when they come in and he can see her eyes immediately dart from Martin’s hand around his wrist to the collar around his neck.

“Congratulations!” She says - and she’s obviously surprised, but there’s a remarkable sincerity to the words as well.

Jon can feel himself flush. He has to look away with a quiet cough, fighting the urge to snap at her just in self-defence. (He’s not _ashamed_ of this, he could never be, but -)

“Thank you,” Martin says. When Jon dares to glance over his face has gone red too, but he’s still smiling, warm and pleased and proud.

That’s the pattern with the other vaguely familiar institute staff they pass, for the ones that are paying enough attention to notice. Surprised glances at the collar and at Martin, and then nods, thumbs-up, more congratulations. It’s… good. More than Jon would have expected.

Martin has to let go of his wrist in the narrow stairwell down to the archives, but Jon can still feel the warmth and silent approval at his back.

The feeling of being watched grows, though, as he descends the stairs. It’s not just Martin’s eyes on him. And Jon knows it’s not random crowds, or Institute staff.

(Well. Maybe _one_ of the Institute staff.) 

It doesn’t - ruin his mood, exactly. But it reminds him of everything else that changed yesterday. Martin hasn’t gone away (Jon can - _almost_ trust that he won’t. He can try.) but neither has everything else that they have to deal with. The world is still ending, and they are still trapped.

Tim rounds the corner as Jon exits the stairwell, cup of coffee in hand. “Hey, welcome back to the hellpit,” he says, a bitter bite in his tone. “Evil boss sent down a stack of paperwork, and _I’m_ not -”

He looks up.

Jon watches Tim’s face change, blood draining out of it in shock and betrayal and _horror_ as his eyes land on the collar. He steps back jerkily, and the coffee sloshes, spilling onto his hand. He doesn’t seem to notice.

It’s like a bucket of ice water. Jon doesn’t know what to do. “Tim,” he manages. “I - what?”

“Jon?” Martin says, behind him.

There’s a tug on his neck, gentle, guiding. Jon steps to the side automatically, and Martin moves past him, out of the stairwell where Jon was blocking the door. “Hi, Tim,” Martin greets, still with his fingers curled in Jon’s collar.

It’s grounding. Jon breathes.

Tim’s gaze fixes on Martin and his hand on Jon’s collar, like it’s almost as much of a lifeline for him. The colour starts to return to his face. “Right,” he says. “You two?”

“Yeah,” Martin says. He shrugs, watching Tim a touch warily, but still obviously pleased. “I know it’s early, but-”

“What, are you joking?” Tim’s shoulders relax. 

Belatedly, Jon realizes what he must have assumed - what anyone would have, with Elias pulling that chain out of his shirt the other day, with his cool voice explaining that he considered himself collared to the Eye, with the way his gaze stayed fixed on Jon as he said it -

Martin tugs on his collar again, fingers pressing against Jon’s throat.

Tim is still talking. “- so when’s the wedding?”

Martin goes bright red. “We’re not - we haven’t - I mean, it’s a bit-” 

“We _do_ have work to do,” Jon cuts in. “Tim, much as I agree with your position on the usual running of the Institute, there are new leads on the Unknowing that someone should follow up on. And I would like to see the state of my office, I’m sure it’s a disaster after this long away.”

“Yeah, we’ve been throwing wild parties in there,” Tim absently transfers his cup to his other hand and wipes the spilled coffee off with a grimace. “Add them to the pile, I’ll have a look.”

Jon’s office is, somewhat surprisingly, not a disaster area. Actually, it might be neater than he’s ever kept it, undone paperwork in one stack to the left of the desk and the boxes of files he had been looking at before - everything - placed tidily against the wall. The chair is new (probably not worth it to get the blood out of the upholstery), but everything else seems to be as he left it, without even any suspicious stains.

“I’ve been making sure it’s ready for you,” Martin says. He works his fingers out of the collar, pressing against it lightly before taking his hand away entirely.

“Thank you,” Jon says. He sits down gingerly in the new chair, and reaches over to grab the top packet of paper off the stack, which appears to be - payroll forms for Basira. Well, he probably _should_ take care of that.

“Unless you need me for anything, I’m going to go help Tim. Also - do you mind if I go tell Melanie and Basira about us?”

Jon shakes his head absently. “No, that sounds - fine, that’s good.”

“Great.” There’s a touch on Jon’s jaw, and he lets Martin tip his head up for a soft kiss. “I’ll be back at lunch, then. Don’t record any statements without telling me first.”

(Sinking back into the rhythm of work is simple, almost effortless. But the gentle grip around Jon’s neck keeps him from getting lost.)


End file.
